Life's a Beach and Then... (The Liberty Sands Trilogy Book 1) (2 page)

Robert closed the door to the terrace as quietly as possible.
He didn’t want to disturb his sleeping wife. The flight had taken its toll,
particularly with the three-hour delay in London, and Robert was beginning to
wish they hadn’t agreed to meet Philippe for dinner that evening, but it had
been difficult to turn down the invitation after their friend had driven across
the island to meet them at the airport. Robert had said it would be just as
easy to take the transport laid on by the hotel but Philippe had been
insistent.

‘You are my friends,’ he had said, ‘and friends help each
other.’

Besides, Rosemary really enjoyed his company and had spent
the journey catching up on all his news and laughing at some of the scrapes he
had got himself into. It was almost like she was flirting with him at times,
especially when she referred to him as her ‘toy boy’, but Robert knew that deep
down she viewed him as the son they had never had.

Robert cradled his wine glass in his hand and swirled the
red liquid around gently to warm it. He smiled as he thought about the
unnecessary action, after all the early evening temperature was still in the
late twenties and would warm his Chateau Neuf du Pape without any intervention
from him. A shiver trembled through his body as he looked at the deep red of
the wine. It reminded him of blood and there had been so much blood over the
last two years. He shook his head to try and clear morbid thoughts, then lifted
his gaze to admire the beautiful sunset. It was one of his and his wife
Rosemary’s favourite things to do. He thought briefly about waking her but
decided instead to deal with her annoyance at missing nature’s awesome display later.
He breathed in the warm air scented with frangipani. The decision to come to
Mauritius had been the right one, even though it was against the advice of the
doctors. The break would do them both good in preparation for the tough road
that lay ahead.

The orange globe of the sun was now halfway over the horizon
and almost as if she knew what she was missing Rosemary opened her eyes and
focused first on her beloved husband and then the glorious scene beyond. She
swung her long legs effortlessly to the floor, slipped her feet into her
favourite flip-flops and went out onto the terrace.

‘I didn’t want to wake you,’ Robert said. ‘You looked so
peaceful.’

She looked into his chocolate brown eyes reproachfully and
planted a gentle kiss on his still firm lips.

‘We’ve already missed too many sunsets,’ she murmured softly
as she arranged her shoulders under his waiting arm and rested her head against
his chest.

After dropping off his friends at the Plantation House hotel,
Philippe had spent longer in the shower than usual in the hope that the sharp
driving needles of water would refresh his mind as well as his body.
Unfortunately they hadn’t. He stared at the computer screen, which he had been
in front of for more than an hour, and re-read the two paragraphs he had
written.

‘
Merde
,’ he cursed under his
breath and then started to laugh.

In his head he had dramatically ripped a piece of paper out
of a typewriter, screwed it into a ball and thrown it across the room into an
already overflowing wastepaper basket. He hit the delete button which was not
so theatrical but it had the same effect of condemning the nonsense he had
written to the ‘trash’.

‘Why do I always swear in French?’ he asked himself.

Philippe had not lived in France since his English father
had left his French mother when he was thirteen years old. There had been no
fight for custody, his mother, Veronique, had decided she couldn’t cope with
bringing up a teenage boy on her own and had agreed to Philippe returning to
England with his father. She had open access to visit them in Kent whenever she
chose but sadly she didn’t choose to visit very often. He believed that his
mother loved him in her own way, and he loved her unconditionally, of course he
did, she was his mother, but theirs was not the close relationship he witnessed
between some of his school friends and their mums.

It had been hard for Philippe at the time, having only a
masculine influence for most of his teenage years, however it had provided the
basis for his widely acclaimed first novel,
Maman
.
How easily the words had flowed. He rested his head in his hands for a moment
and then lifted his gaze to admire the view that was supposed to be the
inspiration for his second book.

Jo, his editor at Ripped publishing, was so certain that
Maman
would be a success, she had managed to secure him a
three-book deal with a healthy advance. The advance had enabled him to leave
his job as a journalist for a tabloid newspaper to concentrate on his new
career. The idea for the second novel had come very easily, but when he had
submitted the first fifty pages Jo had said the characters lacked warmth and
believability.

‘It’s like reading a travel guide about Mauritius,’ she had
criticised, ‘with a bit of romance thrown in, but no real story.’

The words had stung at the time but Philippe knew she was
right. He had taken all the background information from the Internet and glossy
travel brochures. He had never set foot on the island of Mauritius and it
showed. The success of his first book was because he knew the subject matter
intimately. He needed to experience Mauritius first hand so he had booked a
two-week holiday staying at the Plantation House hotel. That was where he had
first met Robert and Rosemary.

They had come to the hotel for dinner in Waves restaurant
one evening and because it was so busy had asked to share his table in the bar
afterwards to watch the local cabaret show. He had sworn Rosemary to secrecy
before revealing he was the author of
Maman
, a book
she had wept buckets over. He had explained that he had come to Mauritius to
research and gain inspiration for his second novel and that was when Rosemary
had come up with the idea of renting the house they were staying in at Tamarina
Bay and staying in Mauritus to write it.

Philippe was unsure.

‘But what if you want to come back on holiday and I’m still
here writing?’ he had asked.

‘No problem,’ she had assured him. ‘We usually stay here at
the Plantation House but we’re thinking of buying the house at Tamarina Bay for
our retirement and we wanted to try before we buy to see if we like it. In a
way you would be doing us a favour. If you are renting it on a long-term lease
it might put off other prospective purchasers.’

‘And do you like it?’ Philippe had asked.

‘No,’ Rosemary had answered, with a twinkle in her eye. ‘We
absolutely LOVE it.’

‘So you will buy it?’ asked Philippe.

She had looked at her husband and squeezed his hand. ‘I
think so, we just have to sort out a few things in the UK first.’

Less than a week later Philippe had signed a six-month
rental agreement on the house at Tamarina Bay, with an option for a further six
months. He had used part of his book advance money to pay the rent up front. He
hadn’t even needed to fly home to sort out his flat in Pimlico. His friend
Jason, a former colleague on the newspaper, had been sleeping on his couch for
several weeks since splitting up with his girlfriend, and he was happy to cover
the rent in return for sleeping in a decent bed. It had fallen into place like
clockwork. There was just one problem: no matter how hard he tried, Philippe
had an almighty case of writer’s block.

The tinkling sound of a piano being played brought Philippe
back to the moment. It was his computer going into sleep mode which it did if
there had been a lack of activity for ten minutes. He now knew the tune by
heart as he had heard it so often over the last nine months.

He swiped the touch pad to stop the music. The twelve-month
deadline to deliver the finished manuscript of his book, so that the editing
could begin, was getting perilously close. He searched the horizon, now bathed
in the pink and orange of a glorious sunset, desperate for inspiration.

Holly ran a hairbrush through her freshly washed hair knowing
that it should really have been a comb. She had spotted one or two grey hairs
in her dark mane lately but nothing that a pair of tweezers couldn’t deal with.
That was something else she knew she shouldn’t be doing, tweezing out grey
hairs. She furrowed her brow trying to remember who had told her the old wives’
tale about each grey hair you plucked out being replaced by two? It certainly
wasn’t her mum. For a brief moment she wondered what her mum looked like now.

The last time Holly had seen her was at the funeral eighteen
years ago and, even taking the circumstances into consideration, she had looked
considerably older than her thirty-eight years. Looking at her own reflection
it was hard to believe that she was now the same age as her mum had been then.
Holly was fortunate that she had inherited her dad’s dark hair and olive skin
tone, which was on the oily side, so she had almost no sign of any ageing
lines, even though she spent quite a lot of her time nowadays in sunspots
around the world.

She leant closer into the mirror to inspect her ‘elevenses’,
the two lines between her eyebrows. They had always been quite pronounced, even
as a teenager, when her skin, that she was now so thankful for, was spotty and
the bane of her life. No wonder she hadn’t had a boyfriend throughout the
entirety of her secondary school education. No one wanted to get up close and
personal with the ‘pimply princess’ as her school mates had so unkindly
nicknamed her.

She deftly twisted her damp hair into a scrunchie while she
applied her eyeliner, mascara, lip gloss and a touch of blusher, and then
released it again to dry naturally in the warm evening air. She opened the
Venetian blind in her bathroom, which she had closed to protect her modesty
while she was showering, although she doubted that anyone could see in now that
she was occupying a first floor room.

The reception staff had been very helpful in assisting her
move to a sea view room, even though she hadn’t requested one when she had made
her reservation. It had allowed her to sit on the balcony watching the sun
disappear into the ocean before getting ready to go to dinner.

Holly looked across at her suitcase and decided she would
unpack that in the morning, she had everything she needed for tonight in her
hand luggage. She always carried all her skin-care and make-up, a day outfit
and an evening outfit, a change of underwear and a bikini in her hand luggage
after the incident in the Bahamas when her luggage had gone missing for
twenty-four hours.

Holly didn’t usually make the same mistake twice.

The main restaurant at the Plantation House hotel had
double-height vaulted ceilings with ceiling fans and was open to the terrace
that bordered the freeform swimming pool. Dining was either under the stars or
in the slightly cooler interior. There were two other choices of restaurant,
Waves, which as the name suggested was on the beach, or the Italian restaurant,
Roberto’s.

Holly had chosen the main restaurant as it was buffet-style
so there would be no waiting around to give her order and then more waiting for
her food to be prepared and served. She was suddenly ravenously hungry which
was not surprising really as she hadn’t eaten since lunchtime the previous day,
apart from fruit salad for breakfast on the plane.

She could only have been standing at the entrance for ten
seconds before a waiter appeared and asked her whether she would like to sit
inside or out.

‘I think I’ll stay inside tonight please,’ she replied,
acutely aware of the beads of perspiration that had formed on her nose and
upper lip in the short walk from her room to the restaurant.

‘Certainly madam, please come this way.’

Holly was shown to a table for two near an open double door
at the back of the restaurant, directly under a ceiling fan. Obviously the
waiter has noticed how warm I am, Holly thought, flushing with embarrassment,
as she sat on the chair he had pulled out for her, and allowed him to place a
crisp white napkin across her lap.

‘What would you like to drink, madam?’

Holly thought for a moment. She normally stuck to soft
drinks, usually water, but she could murder a crisp white wine.

‘I’ll have a glass of the house white please and a bottle of
still water.’

As soon as the waiter had left to get her drinks she headed
for the buffet, but instead of picking up a plate and piling it high with food
she approached a member of staff in a smart cream linen suit who she presumed
must be the restaurant manager.

‘I’m sorry to be a nuisance,’ she said, smiling up at the
man whose name badge identified him as Rajesh. ‘I was just wondering if there
is a special area of the buffet to cater for vegetarians?’

Without a heartbeat of hesitation Rajesh accompanied her to
the islands where all the pre-prepared salads were and pointed out the green
labels signifying that the food was suitable for vegetarians. He then
introduced her to the head chef, Soobis, who assured Holly that there would
always be plenty of vegetarian options.

‘And if you ever want us to prepare something especially for
you please let us know by 2 p.m. and we will make sure it is ready for you,
madam.’

Holly was impressed. She hadn’t told the hotel she was a
vegetarian when she had booked and yet seemingly it was not a problem.

She then helped herself to a selection of the salads, cut
herself a slice of crusty bread and made her way back to her table where, in
her absence, the waiting staff had discreetly removed the second place setting.
Her bottle of water was already in an ice bucket at the side of her table and
as she sat down the waiter reappeared with a bottle of white wine.

‘Would madam care to taste it?’ he asked.

‘No,’ replied Holly, ‘I’m sure it will be fine.’

The waiter poured her a generous glass and left the
remainder of the bottle in the ice bucket alongside the water. She took a sip
of the wine, allowing the sharp fruitiness to burst on her tongue before
swallowing and taking another sip. This was definitely the right decision, she
thought, twisting the bottle round in the ice bucket so that she could read the
label. She was not surprised to learn it was French, after all Mauritius had
been a French colony until the British took over in 1810, and French was still
widely spoken, albeit a creole version of the language.

Being positioned towards the rear of the restaurant was
perfect for Holly to indulge in a bit of people-watching while she tucked into
her starter. There were plenty of people to watch but it was a large restaurant
so it didn’t feel crowded.

The table closest to hers was occupied by three generations
of a Chinese family. The elderly parents were very traditional in manner and
dress, but the couple who looked to be in their early thirties, and their two
young children, a girl of around five and a very young baby, were much more
modern in style. Holly wasn’t sure if the baby, who was dressed in a Burberry
romper suit, was a boy or girl but there was a certain irony about it wearing
the very British brand Burberry which had probably been made in China.

She cast her gaze further afield to several tables whose
occupants she guessed to be British. It was the clothes that were the giveaway,
with the men flagrantly breaking the ‘no shorts to dinner’ rule and the women
wearing just a little too much make-up and slightly too few clothes.

Holly herself was wearing a simple coral-coloured shift
dress, not too short and not too low-cut, showing off her curvy body to
perfection without being too obvious. People often thought she was Italian with
her dark looks and stylish clothes, mostly acquired from charity shops. That
assumption occasionally came in handy when she wanted to pretend she didn’t
understand English so that she could eavesdrop on conversations.

Dragging her eyes away from the sparkly, six-inch
stiletto-heel sandals one of the women was wearing, Holly noticed that the
couple she had checked in with earlier were just arriving at the restaurant.

A different kind of British, Holly thought, as she lowered
her eyes back to her salad to avoid being caught out people-watching for the
second time that day. The woman was blonde, but not in a brassy way, very
slender and tall, almost as tall as her husband even though she was wearing
flat shoes. The man had the look of an ageing rock star or trendy photographer
from the 1960s. His grey hair was tied back into a small ponytail at the nape
of his neck, something Holly normally hated but somehow it seemed right on this
man, and although he was tall his shoulders were slightly rounded and he had a
bit of a middle-aged paunch. Even so, he was a handsome man and they made a
very attractive couple.

At that moment the waiter, whose name she had noticed was
Antish, arrived to refill her wine glass and remove her starter plate. Holly
was shocked that she had finished her wine so quickly, it was most unlike her.
I’d better go and select a main course to soak that up, she thought.

As she made her way across the dining hall again, she saw
the British couple were deep in conversation with another man in a cream linen
suit. That’s a bit of overkill, she thought, two restaurant managers on duty on
the same evening.